The Ascension
Aug. 15th, 2018 02:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
curlytopSitting with Simon in their dank, moldy, dungeon room, George tried to convince himself there was nothing to be afraid of. He'd be fine. He'd trained as hard as anyone for this moment, and he was totally going to survive.
Probably.
"You know," he said to Simon, looking around for the last signs of Jon Cartwright XXXV, the latest in a long series of pseudo-pet rats, "I'm really going to miss it here."
"You're not going to cry again, are you?" Simon said, because he was a good bro like that. "I think there may be another sentient slime mold growing in the back of my sock drawer, if you want to get really choked up."
"Does one wear socks to get transformed into a half-angel superhuman fighting machine?"
Simon answered without hesitation. "Not with sandals. Never with sandals."
In the end, they picked outfits that felt most like themselves, so Simon was in one of his thrift store t-shirts, and George wore jeans and a rugby shirt. It was almost hard to believe this was the last time they'd be getting ready for a test together, the last time they'd get dressed in the cold, slimy room they'd come to think of as home.
George felt compelled to speak, in case Simon was thinking the same things he was. "It's not like we'll never see each other again." He was going to London, Simon to New York, but they'd be in the mundane world again, where things like cell phones existed.
"Of course not," Simon answered.
"But it won't be the same." George didn't look at Simon, lest he actually cry this time.
"No, I guess it won't."
George looked down at the socks in his hand and put entirely too much effort into folding them neatly and sliding them into his suitcase. Enough effort that he could pretend it was a totally casual amount of time to think about what he wanted to say.
"You're my best friend, you know." He still didn't look up from his packing. "Don't worry," he added before Simon could argue, "I know I'm not your best friend, Si. You've got Clary. And Isabelle. And your bandmate mate. I get it. I just thought you should know."
It felt like the sort of thing Simon should know. It felt like the sort of thing you said when you weren't going to see your roommate again for a long time.
Simon didn't say anything at first, and eventually, George had to look at him.
"You're right, George," he said eventually. "I do have more than enough best friends."
George tried, really he did, not to show how much that hurt. Simon was going to tell him that they were just roommates. No hard feelings, but we're both moving on with life now, etc. etc.
Simon kept talking, though. "But there's something else I've never had. At least until now."
"What's that?"
"A brother."
George was sure he was grinning wide enough to split his face, but he couldn't think of a better word for it.
"Are we going to have to hug now or something?" he asked.
Simon grinned. "I think that may be inescapable."
***
Before the ceremony began, George had joked with Simon about why he hadn't wanted his parents there, even though, as Shadowhunters, they were allowed to attend. "Just in case I explode, mate. Don't get me wrong, the Lovelaces are hardy folk, but I don't think they'd enjoy a faceful of liquefied George."
But as he watched one after another of his friends, his classmates, dregs and elites alike, stepped into the concentric circles, hovered over by the creepy Silent Brothers in their parchment-colored robes, eyes and mouths sewn shut...
With every one of his friends who swore on the Angel to uphold the Law, who drank from the Cup of the Angel, George felt the anticipation grow. It wasn't fear. He was confident in his training, and every single one of his classmates had made it through just fine.
Simon was just before him, and as they passed each other, Simon on his way out of the circles, George on his way in, George gave him a quick high five.
When he reached the circles, he knelt in the center as Consul Penhallow stood over him in her ceremonial red robes.
"Do you swear, George Lovelace, to forsake the mundane world and follow the path of a Shadowhunter?" They were words he'd heard asked of everyone who went before. An oath they had all taken. "Will you take into yourself the blood of the Angel Raziel and honor that blood? Do you swear to serve the Clave, to follow the Law as set forth by the Covenant, and to obey the word of the Council? Will you defend that which is human and mortal, knowing that for your service, there will be no recompense and no thanks but honor?"
The room felt impossibly quiet, waiting for him to answer. "I swear."
"Can you be a shield for the weak, a light in the dark, a truth among falsehoods, a tower in the flood, an eye to see when all others are blind?"
"I can," George said, looking up to meet the Consul's eyes.
"And when you are dead," she continued, her voice calm and stern, "will you give up your body to the Nephilim to be burned, that your ashes may be used to build the City of Bones?"
"I will."
Consul Penhallow held out the cup to him. "Then drink."
George took it, glad to have the ceremony finally over, the parts he had to be so serious for. He took a deep breath, raised the Mortal Cup in toast, and shouted, " Sláinte!" He could hear the laughter as he took his drink.
And then there was pain like he'd never known, a scream in his mind that may have come from himself, and at last, utter darkness.
[ooc: All dialogue comes from Cassandra Clare's Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy.]
Probably.
"You know," he said to Simon, looking around for the last signs of Jon Cartwright XXXV, the latest in a long series of pseudo-pet rats, "I'm really going to miss it here."
"You're not going to cry again, are you?" Simon said, because he was a good bro like that. "I think there may be another sentient slime mold growing in the back of my sock drawer, if you want to get really choked up."
"Does one wear socks to get transformed into a half-angel superhuman fighting machine?"
Simon answered without hesitation. "Not with sandals. Never with sandals."
In the end, they picked outfits that felt most like themselves, so Simon was in one of his thrift store t-shirts, and George wore jeans and a rugby shirt. It was almost hard to believe this was the last time they'd be getting ready for a test together, the last time they'd get dressed in the cold, slimy room they'd come to think of as home.
George felt compelled to speak, in case Simon was thinking the same things he was. "It's not like we'll never see each other again." He was going to London, Simon to New York, but they'd be in the mundane world again, where things like cell phones existed.
"Of course not," Simon answered.
"But it won't be the same." George didn't look at Simon, lest he actually cry this time.
"No, I guess it won't."
George looked down at the socks in his hand and put entirely too much effort into folding them neatly and sliding them into his suitcase. Enough effort that he could pretend it was a totally casual amount of time to think about what he wanted to say.
"You're my best friend, you know." He still didn't look up from his packing. "Don't worry," he added before Simon could argue, "I know I'm not your best friend, Si. You've got Clary. And Isabelle. And your bandmate mate. I get it. I just thought you should know."
It felt like the sort of thing Simon should know. It felt like the sort of thing you said when you weren't going to see your roommate again for a long time.
Simon didn't say anything at first, and eventually, George had to look at him.
"You're right, George," he said eventually. "I do have more than enough best friends."
George tried, really he did, not to show how much that hurt. Simon was going to tell him that they were just roommates. No hard feelings, but we're both moving on with life now, etc. etc.
Simon kept talking, though. "But there's something else I've never had. At least until now."
"What's that?"
"A brother."
George was sure he was grinning wide enough to split his face, but he couldn't think of a better word for it.
"Are we going to have to hug now or something?" he asked.
Simon grinned. "I think that may be inescapable."
***
Before the ceremony began, George had joked with Simon about why he hadn't wanted his parents there, even though, as Shadowhunters, they were allowed to attend. "Just in case I explode, mate. Don't get me wrong, the Lovelaces are hardy folk, but I don't think they'd enjoy a faceful of liquefied George."
But as he watched one after another of his friends, his classmates, dregs and elites alike, stepped into the concentric circles, hovered over by the creepy Silent Brothers in their parchment-colored robes, eyes and mouths sewn shut...
With every one of his friends who swore on the Angel to uphold the Law, who drank from the Cup of the Angel, George felt the anticipation grow. It wasn't fear. He was confident in his training, and every single one of his classmates had made it through just fine.
Simon was just before him, and as they passed each other, Simon on his way out of the circles, George on his way in, George gave him a quick high five.
When he reached the circles, he knelt in the center as Consul Penhallow stood over him in her ceremonial red robes.
"Do you swear, George Lovelace, to forsake the mundane world and follow the path of a Shadowhunter?" They were words he'd heard asked of everyone who went before. An oath they had all taken. "Will you take into yourself the blood of the Angel Raziel and honor that blood? Do you swear to serve the Clave, to follow the Law as set forth by the Covenant, and to obey the word of the Council? Will you defend that which is human and mortal, knowing that for your service, there will be no recompense and no thanks but honor?"
The room felt impossibly quiet, waiting for him to answer. "I swear."
"Can you be a shield for the weak, a light in the dark, a truth among falsehoods, a tower in the flood, an eye to see when all others are blind?"
"I can," George said, looking up to meet the Consul's eyes.
"And when you are dead," she continued, her voice calm and stern, "will you give up your body to the Nephilim to be burned, that your ashes may be used to build the City of Bones?"
"I will."
Consul Penhallow held out the cup to him. "Then drink."
George took it, glad to have the ceremony finally over, the parts he had to be so serious for. He took a deep breath, raised the Mortal Cup in toast, and shouted, " Sláinte!" He could hear the laughter as he took his drink.
And then there was pain like he'd never known, a scream in his mind that may have come from himself, and at last, utter darkness.
[ooc: All dialogue comes from Cassandra Clare's Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy.]
